My Boyfriend Has OCD
by Little Kouhai
Summary: It's three-thirty in the morning, and Soul finds himself having to put up with Kidd's OCD. [Rated T for a little bit of self-harm and a few swear words.]


**Author's Note: I know what the wiki says—that he has OCPD. However, I find Kidd's condition to be more of an anxiety disorder, and therefore I believe he has OCD. There's a difference between the two; OCD is an anxiety disorder (which I believe was probably induced by his desire to make everything—including himself—perfect, and the stress he put on himself because of that manifests in the form of a mental disorder), whereas OCPD is a personality disorder (hence ****_obsessive-compulsive _****_personality_****_ disorder_****).**

**I did my research before writing this—I love studying psychology (especially mental disorders), and I have a friend with pretty bad OCD.**

**I think we need to stop making jokes about his mental condition, because it's something that people in the real world actually have to put up with, and I find that dismissing it as merely a _quirk_ and using it for comedy is kind of disgusting.**

**Okay so let's get started.**

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><p>It was late at night. Or, rather, early in the morning—three twenty-seven, to be exact.<p>

That was around the time Soul woke up, for the reason that something didn't feel quite right to him. He yawned and sat up, rubbing at his eyes sleepily.

Kidd wasn't in bed with him, and the sun wasn't even close to rising. That was the issue that woke him up.

The scythe got out of bed, trudging out of the room, down the hallway, trying to find where his boyfriend was. It was a far larger living space than the apartment he used to share with Maka, so he hoped that in his only partially-woken state, he wouldn't end up getting lost trying to take what was probably an incredibly simple route to those who were used to living there.

He heard noises coming from the kitchen, so he decided to check there first. Kidd only rarely got out of bed in the middle of the night, but the times he did, he was usually back within five to ten minutes.

Apparently, that wasn't the case tonight.

"Go back to bed," Kidd said, softly, gently, but he sounded exhausted. "I'll be there in about thirty minutes."

"What's so important that you can't come back to bed now?" Soul asked, trying to stifle another yawn as he leaned against the wall.

Kidd said nothing, but instead points at the clock on the microwave. It read _3:31_. In twenty-nine minutes, so about thirty, it would be four o'clock—the minute of an exact hour. The grim reaper wasn't coming to bed any sooner nor any later than that, it seemed.

"It's not like it's a big deal."

"It's a big deal to me." He didn't raise his voice, probably out of courtesy since Liz and Patty were, of course, still asleep—but he said it coolly, angrily, irritably, and Soul still remained unable to comprehend his way of thinking.

But that's what made it considered a disorder—it kept him from functioning properly.

"Yeah, sorry," the scythe apologized. If it was important to Kidd, he had to respect that. That's just what it meant to be a good boyfriend, or even just a good friend.

The reaper sighed as he grabbed a glass to get himself some water. It slipped from his hand, shattering as it hit the floor.

"Stand back," he warned, reaching up to grab seven more cups. "I don't want you to get hurt."

Soul did what was asked, and Kidd dropped the glasses. He let out a growl of frustration, mumbling under his breath, "And now there are more plates and bowls than cups, and I have to get rid of some of the silverware, too..."

"You can just get more tomorrow, I mean—"

"The stores are still closed, and I need to fix this right away." He reached up to grab eight bowls and plates, smashing them all against the floor. He broke and threw away eight butter knives, forks, and spoons to finally even everything out.

Soul couldn't help being concerned as he saw blood welling up on the palm of his boyfriend's hand, but before he could say anything, the reaper had a knife and used it to slice open his other hand. And of course, just one on each hand wouldn't work, so he began making cut after cut, eight on each hand, making it symmetrical and perfect.

In every relationship, whether it's platonic or not, there's always a line labelled _Yeah, We're Not Doin' This_. That was the point wherein such a line was drawn.

The scythe snatched the knife away and tossed it in the sink. "This is where it stops—cutting yourself for the sake of perfection, or symmetry, or whatever isn't something I can be okay with."

"But—"

"There's nothing to excuse this, Kidd. Go tend to those cuts and I'll sweep this up."

With a hesitant nod, the reaper left the room, and Soul grabbed the broom and dustpan to clean up the shattered glass and porcelain covering the floor.

When Kidd returned, he held out his hands. "The bandages... Do you think they look symmetrical?"

"Yeah, they're fine. Hey, there's something I need to ask you."

The reaper cocked his head to the side, though remained silent.

Soul pulled off his shirt and used two of his fingers to trace over the scar running down his chest and abdomen. "What do you think of this?"

"I've told you already, it doesn't matter to me. You're perfect, regardless of things like that."

"So why did you do that to your hands, if things like this don't matter?"

"Because I'm scum, and I don't need more reminders of that."

"So shouldn't this be a reminder that _I_ suck, too?!"

"It's not like that at all!" Kidd glared, tears threatening to well up in his eyes. He looked thoroughly and completely hurt, which contradicted the cold and distant tone of voice he was using. "I never expected you to understand how I function, but I at least fucking trusted you to love me enough to deal with whatever bullshit I put you through."

He turned and left, and Soul had no idea what else to do other than sigh helplessly and let himself sink to the floor.


End file.
